


Elliott's Blue Eyeshadow

by velvetglove



Category: Smallville
Genre: Gen, M/M, font challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-10
Updated: 2003-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-01 18:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10927959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetglove/pseuds/velvetglove
Summary: For clari_clyde's Typeface Challenge.I chose a very decorative typeface (see image below) for a very decorative character.Clark meets one of Lex's old friends.





	Elliott's Blue Eyeshadow

The late September rain fell hard, fat drops bursting like overripe fruit on the pavement, and Clark really wished he could justify using his speed to dodge the deluge. Ducking under the awning of the LexCorp Tower, then through the glass-and-steel front doors, Clark dripped all the way across the marble lobby.

Using his passcard to access the penthouse elevator, Clark called out, "Hey, Mr. Krauss!" to the security guard. Digging through his backpack in search of his chemistry notes—which he hoped Lex would go over with him—Clark was only half aware of the men in coveralls who waited behind him. The elevator doors opened to reveal an interior lined in quilted moving blankets.  

"Excuse us, please," said a voice behind Clark, and he found himself sharing the elevator with two big-shouldered men pushing dollies piled high with boxes.  

On the 73rd floor, the doors opened on chaos. Lex was nowhere in sight, but a small, slender red-haired man dressed in black was directing the house staff in moving suitcases and boxes from the foyer in the direction of the guest suite. Lucas had just cleared out the week before, having overstayed his welcome by a good three weeks…was this yet another brother? Clark wouldn't put it past Lionel to have another kid or two waiting in the wings.  

The stranger turned, grinned at the movers and Clark, and said, "If you'll just follow me…" and turned to lead his possessions down the hall. Clark stood still, dumbstruck, as the movers rolled their towers of boxes around him.  

Lex appeared, coming in from the direction of the den. "Clark, hello! Did you meet Ellie?"

"Hey, Lex. Who's Ellie? What's going on?"

"Ellie is my houseguest. Elliott Sinclair. We went to school together." Lex put a hand on the small of Clark's back. "Come on. I'll get you something to drink."  

A _houseguest_? "Why is he here?" Clark asked the back of Lex's head. "I mean, I guess I'm just surprised…"

"It's business masquerading as personal." Lex turned to smile at him, that ironic half-smile that invited Clark to join a very exclusive, two-person club. "Sinclair Industries needs a new supplier for chemicals that LexCorp makes, and Sinclair Senior has hinted that a contract might be contingent on me…renewing my friendship with Elliott. He happens to want Elliott out of Gotham for awhile and asked if I'd put him up."

They entered the kitchen and Clark leaned back against the counter. "Out of Gotham? What for?"

Lex shrugged. "Another father who judges his son too harshly. Elliott's all right."  

There was a crash of falling boxes from the direction of the hall, and a rising crescendo of voices. Clark frowned and said, "Are you guys good friends? You've never talked about him. You never talk about any of your friends from before."

Lex's voice was muffled behind the refrigerator door. "We were friends when we were 15. I haven't seen him since I left Excelsior."

"But now he's going to be living in your house? He's practically a stranger."

"Well, he's strange, but I already knew that." Lex smiled again, handing Clark a glass of orange juice. "You know how I've told you that I felt like a freak? Well, Elliott was a bigger freak than me."

"You're not a freak," Clark said loyally.  

Lex rolled his eyes. "Sandwich?"

Clark nodded, reaching around the open door to pick up the pitcher, then pouring another glass of juice.  

"I was a 15-year-old bald kid. Elliott, on the other hand, was a 15-year-old cross-dresser."

Clark swallowed hard, choking. "A _what?_ "  

"Transvestite."  

"That’s what I thought you said. Wow."  

Lex smiled again. "Wow. Gosh, Clark. Heck. A real-live transvestite, right here in Metropolis."  

"Cut it out," Clark said, reddening with a smile.  

Ham and Swiss on crusty bread. Lex handed it to him on a plate along with a violet-monogrammed napkin. "Don't forget your juice," he said, turning and leaving the kitchen, seeming certain that Clark would follow.  

They sat at the table in the sunroom. Lex was quiet, waiting.  

"He's dressed like a guy right now," Clark said slowly. "Isn't he? I mean, I know girls wear pants, but…"

"No, he's not in drag right now, Clark."

"So is he, um…" Clark didn't know how to put it, not wanting to seem rude. "Does he, I mean…"

"Is he gay? Is that what you want to know?"

Red, redder than red. "Yeah, I guess."

"Well, he was when he was 15. He probably still is. Most transvestites aren't though, you know."

"They're not?"

"No." Lex seemed to have lost interest in the subject, chewing his sandwich and staring out at the Metropolis skyline. Suddenly, he snapped back to attention. "So. Clark. Want to play some pool? I'll introduce you to Elliott after he gets settled in."

Three games later, Clark distracted and playing as lousy as he'd ever played, Elliott appeared in the doorway with a martini glass in hand, wearing trousers that looked completely, if unremarkably, masculine.  

"Hello, Lex. Who's your friend?" Elliott peeled himself off the doorjamb and sauntered across the parquet with a slow swivel of hips that said "female" despite the decidedly male narrowness of the bones. A slender white hand was extended, drooping a little. "I'm Elliott."  

"Clark Kent." He took the hand, which was lax and warm against his palm. Like a…woman's. Kind of affected, actually; Lana shook hands like that, but not Chloe. "Pleased to meet you."

Elliott smiled at him, a sardonic smirk, and it began to seem very likely that this particular smile was something taught at Excelsior. "You're sweet to say so," he said, taking back his hand and turning abruptly away. "Lex, where do you keep the good liquor?"

"What do you want?" Lex asked.

"Dry martini, of course." Elliott collapsed on the couch in a decorative heap, limbs crossed below, splayed above. "So, Clark." Elliott took a moment to smile at him again. "Did Lex tell you all about how I've been _foisted_ on him?"

A short bark of a laugh from Lex, busy with a silver shaker. Clark turned red, redder. "No, no, nothing like that."

"Oh, Clark…Lex told me a little about you. You can't lie _at all_ , can you?" Elliott tilted his head back against the couch cushions, looking up to take his drink from Lex's hand. "It's okay. I understand. Lex and I haven't seen each other in, what? Almost nine years?" He looked to Lex for confirmation, and Lex nodded. "But my father wants me out of Gotham for awhile and I can't refuse. He pays my bills, after all."

"It'll be fine. It's a big apartment," Lex said. "It's not like it was at school."

"I'll bet it's just the same as at school, Lex," Elliott countered. "I bet you still won't fuck me."

Another bark from Lex. Clark choked.  

"Probably not," Lex agreed.  

***

Since moving to Metropolis to attend the U, Clark had never needed an excuse—or, at least, not a particularly _good_ excuse—to drop by Lex's house, but now he found himself stopping by on the flimsiest of pretexts, then making things worse by giving elaborate explanations that weren't even remotely necessary.

Even when he knew Lex wouldn't be around, he'd wander around the penthouse, hoping to run into Elliott. Seeing Elliott was almost as good as seeing Lex. Elliott was unusual, a singular point in Clark's admittedly limited experience.

If neither one was to be found, he could lean against the kitchen counter and look as young and hungry as possible; Mrs. Thomas usually found things that needed to be eaten sooner rather than later. She had always liked Clark, and said she didn't want the food to go to waste.  

***

The first time they were alone, Elliott poured champagne in his orange juice and tried to teach him the foxtrot.  

"You're curious, aren't you?" Elliott asked him, arranging Clark's arms and squaring his hips. "You wonder about my alternate persona." He didn't wait for an answer, but said, "I tell you what, Clark. Before I leave Metropolis, I'll make sure you meet Elena."  

Clark blushed and ducked his head. "I'd like that."  

"Good," Elliott said. "So will she. Now, we're making a frame, here, Clark." Elliott manhandled Clark into position, placing Clark's right hand high on his ribs, his own left hand on Clark's shoulder. Clark was acutely aware of the warmth of Elliott's skin under the thin shirt, the movement of muscles under his hand, but Elliott had already moved on. He put his right hand in Clark's left, held their arms up and out to the side. "Like this," he said, "But _you_ need to hold _me_ ; you need to lead. And _relax_ , Clark!" Elliott gave his arm a shake. "You're so stiff!" Warm, moist breath huffed against the hollow of his throat. Elliott did a fast, playful shimmy in his arms. "Loosen up; this is supposed to be fun!"

Clark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. They had Frank Sinatra doing _The Way You Look Tonight_ on repeat, and it was obvious how he was supposed to move, where the music wanted him to go, but he was frozen. Cool, white fingers weighed against Clark's sweaty palm, and he could feel Elliott's ribs and shoulder blade expand against the press of his hand, smooth and regular. Elliott was practically under Clark's chin, smelling faintly of toothpaste and cologne, something rich and spicy that stayed close to his skin. Nervous, Clark let his arm slump and shuffled a half step backward. Elliott frowned, gave his hand a hard squeeze. "Come on, Clark. You're the man here, remember; I'm a weak little girl and I need you to hold me up and tell me what to do." Elliott smirked up at him. "Dancing is the last bastion of chauvinism, Clark, and you'd do well to take advantage of that."  

Clark smiled and flushed red. Elliott was so far into his personal space that he didn't even know how he wanted to react. Clark had held girls close, of course, but they were _girls,_ and there hadn't been this tension. There had been kissing, consummation; not this excruciating, extended almost-flirtation. He felt painted with heat where their bodies overlapped, and the shallow airspace between their shirtfronts was thick with images from half-forgotten dreams. Of course, the half that wasn't forgotten made Clark blush, and he was distracted when Elliott reminded him, "Listen to the music," in a low murmur. "Remember the rhythm…it's slow-slow, quick-quick." Clark listened to the music, took a deep breath, and stepped forward with the wrong foot, crushing the toe of Elliott's shiny oxford.

Elliott made a pained sound and bit his lip.  

"Sorry," Clark murmured, red again.  

Elliott took Clark's chin in hand. "Don't look at your feet; look into my eyes." Elliott's eyes were hazel, gray-gold rimmed and speckled in blue. The cool hand returned to its perch on his shoulder. Clark took a deep breath, squared his hips, held Elliott's hand firmly aloft, and gazed into his eyes. He listened to the music, found the rhythm, counted in his head. "Ready?" Elliott asked. Clark nodded in the affirmative and stepped on Elliott's other foot.  

***

Clark made excuses. When Pete wanted to hang out, he claimed that he was busy studying. It happened often enough that Pete finally just showed up at Clark's dorm room. It felt a little confrontational—interventional, actually—and Pete didn't hide his skepticism when Clark said he had plans.  

"Really," Clark insisted. "I'm going to Lex's to use his library."

"Whatever," Pete said, "Fine. You know, Lana is worried about you."

Clark, shoving books into his backpack, said, "She shouldn't worry about me. She needs to get a hobby."  

"That's harsh, Kent." Pete picked up the LexCorp passcard from the top of Clark's dresser and idly turned it over in his fingers.  

"Hey, give that here." Clark held out his hand for the card, but Pete hesitated. Their eyes met, Pete's expression solemn.  

"What's this for?" Pete asked.  

"Lex's building." Clark looked down, busied himself with his books.  

"Why do you need it?" Pete tapped the card on edge on the scuffed top of the dresser. "It's not like you work there, right?"

"After hours. Look, just hand it over."  

"What's going on with you and Lex, Clark?"  

"Nothing." And it was true, after all. "What makes you think anything's going on?"

"Clark, you don't have a key to _my_ room."

"So?" Clark's long experience at playing deliberately obtuse was standing him in good stead.  

"So why do you need a key to Lex's house?"

"It's different," Clark pointed out. "I can just walk into your dorm until ten, and I can buzz you if it's later than that. I don't need a key."  

Disgusted, Pete tossed the card at Clark, who caught it and pocketed it with barely a glance up. "If you don't care what people think, Clark…"

"People, Pete? Or you? And what _do_ you think, anyway?"

Frustrated, Pete said, "Look, there are rumors about you, is all, and you're not doing anything to prove them wrong by spending so much time at Lex's, or carrying around a key to his house."  

"You're the only one who knows about the key, Pete, so feel free to keep your mouth shut if it bothers you so much."  

"Fuck you, Kent," Pete said halfheartedly. "If you don't care, then why should I? Let everyone think you're a fag if they want to, right?"

"Right." Clark snapped. "Because that would be the worst thing I could possibly be."

"Whatever, man." Pete backed into the hallway, shaking his head. "Like I said, if you don't care…" He stood for a moment, waiting and watching, then finally shrugged and walked away.  

Clark wanted to tear the room apart, slam the door off its hinges, turn the clunky dorm furniture into kindling, but instead, he shouldered his bag and turned off the light, locking the door behind him. He could catch a bus downtown right in front of the dorm in two minutes, and he knew Elliott had ordered pizza. It didn't matter much to him anymore what "people" thought, but Pete…well, fuck. Pete was his oldest friend, but he was also a homophobe, and a bigot, and Clark would just have to try not to care what he thought, either.

***

Two weeks into Elliott's stay in Metropolis, Lex and Clark played pool. "So you and Ellie seem to have hit it off," Lex said, chalking his cue. Clark could tell this was meant to sound casual, but Lex's tone was contrary and clipped; was he annoyed with Clark?  

"Yeah, I like him," Clark agreed. "It's been interesting getting to know him."

"I imagine he's not like anyone else you've ever known," Lex said, sounding a bit smug. "Smallville is not exactly known for its diversity."  

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Hey, come on; that's not fair. My mom's a redhead too, you know."

"Very funny," Lex said, but he didn't laugh. He came around the table and moved Clark out of the way with a nudge of his hip, then bent over to make his shot. Clark stood staring at Lex's ass until Lex said, "Do you _mind_?" and poked him with the blunt end of the cue. Clark stepped to the side and watched as Lex sank two balls.  

A few shots later, as Clark was bent over the table, Lex said, "So has he made a pass at you yet?"

The tip of Clark's cue veered sideways, barely touching the cue ball, sending it wobbling off at a useless angle. "What?"

"Elliott. Has he made a pass at you?"  

"No. God, Lex! Of course not." Clark looked up to find Lex examining him, clearly not believing him, and had to look away. "We're _friends_ is all."

Lex sauntered over to the table, picked up the chalk and stood with one hip canted out to the side as he ground it over the tip of his cue, and said, "Well, wouldn't that be a _friendly_ thing to do? I mean, you and Lana were _friends_ before—"

"And look how well _that_ worked out," Clark snapped back. "Ellie has never done anything…and even if he had, it wouldn't be any of your business."  

Lex looked somewhat taken aback. "I just wouldn't want him to make you uncomfortable, Clark."

Clark glared at Lex, who stood there in his tight pants and silky shirt looking sexy and contrite. Well, definitely sexy; Clark couldn’t be as sure about the contrition.

"It wouldn't make me uncomfortable. I mean, he wouldn't _do_ anything to make me uncomfortable. And I'm not a kid any more, Lex. You don't have to protect me from everything, you know."

"You're right, and I'm sorry." Lex laid his cue flat on the felt. "I just remembered—I've got to make a call. Sorry to cut this short."

And with that, he turned and left the room, hands deep in his pockets, pulling the fabric tight across his ass. Clark stared until he realized he was staring, then shook his head, embarrassed. _It's just a phase_ , he told himself. _Just a phase, and I'll outgrow it, and Lex will never have to know._  

***

Clark came in as Ellie was going out.  

"Lex is in the den," Ellie said. "I'll be back by dinnertime, if you're still going to be around. Did you take that test today?"

"Yeah—it went well, I think. Thanks for asking. It's awfully cold out today. You might want to take a scarf."  

" _You_ don't have one."

Clark laughed. "I'm tougher than you."

Ellie snorted. " _No one_ is tougher than a former teenage drag queen," but he reached back into the closet. As he wrapped a length of striped cashmere around his throat, he said, "Oh, which reminds me: I'm going back to Gotham in about a week, ten days or so." Ellie said. "Do you still want that date with Elena?"

Clark reddened and smiled. "Yeah, I do."

Ellie smiled back, clearly pleased. "Wonderful. How about…Saturday? Come over here about noon and wear that nice suit Lex got for you."  

"Sure. That sounds good."  

"I'll be looking forward to it." Ellie patted him on the arm as he passed by.  

***

Elliott asked, "Do you want to watch it happen? Or do you just want to meet Elena when she's ready?"

"I'll watch," Clark said, not even having to think about it. He was already dressed in his suit, a deep navy that Lex had purchased for him the first time Clark accompanied him to a benefit. He took the jacket off and hung it over the bedpost.  

Elliott left Clark in the bedroom while he stepped into the bath, his arms full of flesh-colored elasticky stuff.

Clark sat on the bed, feeling a little self-conscious at first, but as time passed, he quickly became pleasantly bored and forgot where he was. He flopped back on the rumpled comforter and kicked his shoes off. He fiddled with the clock radio and changed the station to the one he listened to back at the dorm. There was an old issue of _Vanity Fair_ on the nightstand and he picked this up and flipped through the pages as he wriggled deeper into the pillows. By the time Elliott emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Clark had made himself thoroughly at home.  

"You look good there," Elliott commented. Clark jumped and blushed guiltily. He started to get up, but Elliott waved him back down. "It's okay, Clark; I like it. I haven't had a pretty boy in my bed since leaving Gotham." Upon seeing Clark's deer-in-the-headlights expression, Elliott laughed and reached down to give Clark's foot a reassuring squeeze. "Go ahead and relax. It's going to take me awhile to get ready."  

Wrapped in a dark-blue silk robe, Elliott sat before the vanity mirror and examined his face, tweezers in hand. "I'm lucky," Ellie remarked. "I don't have a heavy beard, so I don't have to wear as much base as some do…" With a critical frown, he examined the skin at the corner of his eye, then shrugged. As he spoke, he patted a pale, flesh-colored cream against his milky skin with a sponge. "And I'm petite. My hands, see? Narrow." He held up one graceful white hand. "It makes the effect more believable in the end. That's all I really want, Clark: to be accepted as a woman."

Clark struggled to sit up out of his pillowy nest. "So you really feel like a woman?"

"Sometimes. Most of the time." She smiled at him in the mirror.  

Clark realized he was already thinking of Ellie as a woman. It was the make-up, probably: an ordinary tackle box yawned open to reveal dozens of mysterious pots and jars, tiny compacts; and clattering tubes and cylinders ranked like rows of ammunition. Clark had no idea what most of it was; although Martha always wore makeup when she came to Metropolis, as well as a touch of lipstick when she went into town back home, she had nothing like this mammoth kit.

"You can come closer if you want," Ellie said, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "If you want to see what I'm doing." She gestured at the small armchair by the window. "Pull that over here; sit, relax."  

Clark felt huge and burly, hyper-masculine. He set the chair down by Ellie's vanity table. "I feel like a bull in a china shop," he said. The room had suddenly become a top-heavy wedding cake, a sea of delicate bubbles, and Ellie a paper doll. Clark lowered himself gingerly into the flimsy, satin-covered chair.  

"I won't break, Clark," Ellie said, patting his knee. "I'm the same as before. But prettier." She grinned widely, and she was prettier.  

She held a tiny pot of turquoise blue powder, the same shade of blue as the boxes from the jeweler that were strewn across her dresser top. To Clark's untrained eye, the color looked too garish to be worn, but Ellie applied it with a few flicks of a brush and it was barely there, a blue-gray shadow above her strange, changeable eyes, turning them almost khaki. "See?" she said. "It's subtle."

Clark nodded in agreement, reaching for the tiny pot, holding it up to the sunlight streaming in over his shoulder. "It looks so bright…" He didn't finish the thought; Ellie dipped her finger in the powder and smeared it across the back of his hand. It was greenish against his gold skin, which shouldn't have surprised him.  

"It needs a light hand," she said. Clark picked up another pot of color, this one a dark grayish-olive. Ellie lightly snatched it back from him, then dipped in a narrow brush and used it to line her eyes. Reddish-brown powder and a matching pencil accentuated her brows. Finally, she uncapped a tube of black mascara and applied two coats to her lashes, eyebrows raised and mouth open. As she worked, she showed him the brushes, discussed the use of colors, opened and closed caps and tubes with slender, graceful fingers. The narrow hands with their neat, squared nails were ambiguously pretty, especially when he compared them to his own giant, tanned paws.   

Ellie listed the "tells": Stubble, of course. Narrowness of hips, heaviness of wrists and jaw, the existence of an Adam's apple. She wore scarves or jewelry to hide the Adam's apple, and wore a shoulder-length wig made from her own her hair, the ends curling in toward her throat to further disguising the slight bump.  

"I don't usually let anyone see this, Clark. Not _anyone_." She stood up from the vanity bench and let the heavy silk dressing gown slither open, exposing padded briefs, and a bra heavy with false breasts. "I thought I could put on the body parts in front of you…but I couldn't do it after all." She shrugged and continued, "It's just a little too intimate; that's not the relationship we have." She let the robe slide to the floor and pulled a peach-colored slip from a drawer. As she let the garment slide down over her body, she stretched her arms overhead, and Clark was surprised to see silky orange curls against the milky pink skin of her armpits. He was also surprised that it made his cock twitch.  

"I'm being dressy for you today, Clark. You do know that most women don't bother with all this," she commented. "It's a lot of work to put everything together, too much for every day." She unwrapped a new pair of pale stockings, began to bundle one up in a silky circle. "But this is a special occasion, Clark. This is our first date." She smiled and Clark, predictably, blushed. He noticed that Ellie's shapely white legs looked as smooth as satin, and that her toenails were painted a brilliant fuchsia. Once the stockings were on, she applied false nails, lozenges of fuchsia-enameled resin layered over her own fingernails.  

"Feel," she said, putting her wig in his hands. "It's actually my hair." Without thinking, Clark closed his eyes, brought it up to his face and inhaled Ellie's scent. When he opened his eyes, she was smiling at him. "You flatter me, Clark."

Once the wig was in place, she dressed. Tweed, in an outlandish palette, violet with pinkish and greenish threads. "You and Lex with the purple," Clark commented. He knew that the Chanel tag in the collar of the jacket would mean something to his mother, but he wasn't sure if it was a tell about taste, or money, or just about what kind of woman Ellie was. The skirt was cut a few inches above the knees and the tight jacket hugged Ellie's narrow waist. Her shoes were two-tone, lavender and violet, and she told him they were spectator pumps, but had no explanation for the name.

She wore an elegant, 5-strand pearl choker which, she explained, had belonged to her grandmother. "No girls in the family to inherit it," she said with a shrug. "I got lucky." She tilted a heavy bottle against her fingertips and touched Chanel No. 5 behind her ears and to the inside of each wrist.  

The final touch was lipstick. She pressed her lips together and closed the tube with a snap. "Are we ready?" she asked.  

"You look beautiful," Clark said, and he meant it.  

***

Clark had surprised himself by being so open-minded. At first, he was amazed at how easy it was for him to accept Elliott's assertion that he was actually female, but on consideration of his own identity and his own life, maybe it wasn't so surprising, after all. Elliott wasn't like anyone Clark had ever met before—no surprise—and he liked him very much. But despite his fondness for Elliott as a friend, and his fascination with Elliott's gender chaos, he had never felt a strong, purely sexual attraction.

However, his fresh, juicy crush on his beautiful Elena was fairly overwhelming. While it was nothing compared to his Lex fixation, his feelings for Ellie made him want to do stupid, stupid things, like compose poetry in her honor, or shower her with rose petals. Instead, he made do with mundane chivalry, holding doors open and gazing at her with shy, ardent awe.  

Walking down Garland Avenue in the clear winter sunshine with Ellie's hand on his arm, Clark wondered if anyone realized, if anyone could see what Ellie was under the makeup and silky stockings. He considered whether or not Ellie was even male under the garments and decided that, no, she wasn't; the situation was something like the tree falling in the forest, far from listening ears.  

Ellie's perfect mouth was a startling fuchsia against white skin and the orange-red of her hair. She looked older than him, but not old—sophisticated. Beautiful. He saw other men shooting her admiring glances and was proud to be with her. He put his hand over hers, just briefly, and she smiled up at him and leaned into his side. "Are you having fun, Clark?" she murmured.  

Shopping. They were shopping at Frost's, which was the store where his Mom used to shop before she became a Kent. Apparently, among the sort of people who shopped at Frost's, it wasn't unusual for beautiful women to be named things like Elliott. Ellie signed her name over and over on charge slips and no one raised an eyebrow.

She held up a scarf, said it was apple green, and asked Clark what he thought of the color. It made her eyes look gray. It made her hair look like fire. It took away his words; he opened his lips but nothing came out. She laughed at his expression and let the wisp of fabric float down to the counter, then told the salesgirl to wrap it up.  

As they climbed into the back of the car, Ellie said, "I promised Lex I wouldn't keep you too long. He's very concerned that I not chip into your study time with this self-indulgent folly." She rolled her eyes and laughed. "He doesn't trust me one bit, does he?"

"He's got some…ideas." Clark conceded. "He thinks…well, you know what he thinks." He laughed. "Did he really say that? 'Self-indulgent folly'?"

"Yes, he did. And some other choice words, as well. He really loves you, you know."

"We're friends," Clark said, almost pleading with her not to take the conversation further. "We're best friends."  

Ellie smiled, the Excelsior smile, and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Isn't that what I said?" She had definitely mastered the dramatic pause; once Clark was squirming, she continued, "Well, I'm at least going to feed you before I take you back. You're a growing boy, after all."  

Ellie directed the driver to take them to Cafe Piaf, a tiny jewel box of a restaurant, all gilt chairs and quilted silk walls, and Clark once again felt hyper-masculine and all rough edges. Ellie laid a hand against the maitre d's arm and said, "Could we please be seated in Sean's section?"

"Sean?" Clark asked.  

"A friend of mine, very charming. You'll see."  

Clark had never met any of Ellie's friends. Sean was indeed charming and needlessly discreet, apparently under the impression that Clark and Ellie were lovers. However, it was flattering that he clearly approved of Clark. While remaining utterly accommodating, he managed to make it clear he was doing them a favor by not asking Clark for ID when Ellie ordered wine.  

"Does he know you're Elliott, too?" Clark spoke in a low voice, his head close to Ellie's. "Or does he just know Elena?"

"Sean knows me both ways," Ellie said, blithely disregarding her own double entendre. "But not everyone does. Some people can tell just by looking at me, but they're few and far between; I'm very good at this, Clark." She lifted her wineglass. "To me?"

Clark clinked his glass against hers. "To you."   

A few more sips, then Ellie said, "So, since I'm leaving soon, I'll be bold and ask: are you gay, Clark?"

Mortified, Clark froze. Sweat broke out on his brow, his upper lip.  

"Oh, god, Clark," she sighed. "I'm sorry. That was rude of me."  

"No, no," he murmured. "It's okay…I just…" He cleared his throat. "I don't know how to answer that question."  

"You don't know."  

"No. I don't. It's stupid, but…" Clark couldn't finish the sentence. He couldn't look at Ellie, ridiculously beautiful but a _guy_ under that skirt, and he couldn't _not_ think of Lex with his purple shirts and tight slacks, but he could still get hard thinking of Lana if he tried, so, _no_ , he couldn't answer the question.  

"It's not stupid at all." She held his hand loosely on the tabletop and said, "I shouldn’t have asked; it was completely uncalled for. It doesn't matter; in any case, Clark, you're a lovely, lovely boy."

Was he gay? Who knew? He _did_ know he was a little tipsy, or maybe more than a little, but he meant it when he lurched sideways and tried to kiss her. "No, no," she murmured, soothing hands skating over the planes of his face. "You don't want to do that, baby."  

"I do." He was so sure of it. "I really do, Ellie."

"You don't. Besides, Lex would kill me. If you want to kiss someone wildly inappropriate, I suggest you try your best friend."

"Lex would never—"

"You'd be surprised, Clark. When it comes to you, I don't think there's anything he wouldn't do."  

Clark tried to think that through, wondering if it were a compliment, a warning, or something else entirely. Ellie stood and drew him to his feet. She laced her fingers through his and led him through the restaurant, weaving through the tables with effortless grace. It was all he could do to not trip, kick over the tiny tables and tangle in the spindly chairs. He struggled with the urge to fall on his knees, begging her to kiss him or, alternatively, back her up against the wall and demand that she tell him about Lex and the lengths to which he would go for Clark's sake.  

The limo was waiting for them at the curb. In the car, heading back to LexCorp Tower, Ellie let Clark keep hold of her hand and said, "You really like me, don't you, Clark?"

"Yeah," Clark said, blushing, always blushing. He wondered idly if he would ever grow out of it. "I really do." He played with her fingers, admired the translucence of the skin of her wrist over blue veins.  

"You're such a sweet boy, Clark, and you're so beautiful. Today you're sure I'm the woman of your dreams, aren't you?"

Clark used all of his powers of flirtation and said, "Yes. 'Cause you are."

"But I'm also Elliott. Everyday Elliott. And you're not in love with Elliott. You're in love with Lex."  

"No! I'm not, I…maybe."

"I'm a middle-aged woman in a young man's body, Clark. I can't be with someone who doesn't want all of me, not any more. I can't be just an experience for yet another handsome, sweet boy."  

Clark blushed at the compliment. The wine had made him sleepy; it was just as well that Ellie turned him down.  

"I see how you look at Lex. He sees it, too."

"Ellie!" Oh, god. If she'd noticed, maybe Lex suspected, too. "I don't look at him any way…do I?"

"Oh, Clark. You know you do. Eventually one of you will gather enough courage…or go crazy and pounce."

"Eventually," Clark sighed. He let his head roll from side to side against the leather upholstery. "That long?"

"It's up to you," Ellie said. She squeezed his hand again. "It's entirely up to you."  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to isagel, rhiannonhero and shaggirl for beta.


End file.
